


One less lonely girl

by orphan_account



Category: Justin Bieber (Musician)
Genre: I Don't Even Know, Justin Bieber OS, Justin Bieber x OC, Justin OS, Love, Melancholy, Or thoughtful, Paris - Freeform, Thougts, because love, first world problems, i'm not really good at this, kinda sad, no really, or something, voila, whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 23:06:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10371852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Justin Bieber thinking about love on a beautiful summer day.





	

**Author's Note:**

> If you notice any mistakes, please tell me! 
> 
> The inspiration for this OS came to me like two hours ago, when I was listening to my Ipod on shuffle and heard "One less lonely girl" for the first time in... forever.* So I just wrote it down and hope you like it :) 
> 
> Love you xx
> 
>  
> 
> *Did you read this sentence in Princess Anna's voice? JK ;) x

_Maybe I should have been a drummer after all_ , Justin reflected for a second. He was standing by a window with the curtains barely open, just so he could look outside without anyone looking back. It was a beautiful day in may, almost summer, and he could see seagulls flying above an endless landscape of roofs, enjoying the sun... unlike him. He chased the thought away.

He was a great drummer, sure, but he loved everything he was doing and everything he had done. He loved singing, dancing, playing any sort of instrument or sport - and most of all, making people happy.

He didn't know whether he would be quite as good at it as a drummer.

Music was capable of making people feel better instantly. It didn't need to be a great, complicated piece of art. It wasn't a matter of complexity or popularity. Anyone could just open their mouth and sing, sing whatever tune they remembered from the radio, from the last album they listened to, or even a rhyme they'd learned when they were four years old. They wouldn't even need to strike the right note; it would make them feel happier anyway. Those were some of the only scientific facts that Justin was actually interested in – other than that, he really couldn't bother revising chemistry or biology. But this, yes. This was fascinating. Dopamine, a neurotransmitter in the biological reward systems, which was connected to music, apparently, next to uncountable other things. Next to love, for instance.

Maybe that was why everybody loved him, a mocking voice said in his head when he was feeling particularly bitter. They heard his music, enjoyed it, felt happy and in love, and connected it to him. _Justin Bieber starring as:_ _the objectified version of his own music._ Wow, good prank on himself, right?

Well, maybe. He couldn't marry everyone who listened to his music though. He couldn't even meet them all. Sometimes, he wondered if it was even worth it having all those people loving him, since it wasn't the kind of relationship he wanted. He dreamed of meeting them in real life, hanging out, playing basketball or football with them (boys or girls, any genders could play; and any bodyshapes too, screw the clichés). If he could, he would organize jam sessions with, like, five to fifty people.

He would be human around them, basically.

Dreaming wasn't even a metaphor here, he really spent nights living like this, just to wake up, confused at first, then disappointed, sad, melancholic, bitter... And most of all, ashamed of feeling that way. He was so privileged, right? Rich, talented, straight white male from Canada with a loving family, whose dream had come true when he was barely a teenager. What the heck was his problem?

Those dreams just weren't part of the deal he'd signed when getting into the industry. They weren't part of anything when he was around, accompanied by a security team and far too many cameras. (And screams. Oh god, the screams. With all due respect (and love!) for his fans, they would definitely drive him crazy one day. That day, he would release a new album filled with screams and camera noises, crying girls, „get out of the way“ or „look this way, Justin, _here_!“ shouts, so everybody would learn what it was like to be Justin Bieber and go outside. Maybe they'd leave him alone then.

Oh _god_. Why was he thinking things like this? Of course he wouldn't do that, what kind of person was he to even have these thoughts? A horrible person. _Damn_. He didn't _deserve_ to meet his fans. Horrible, really. _God_.)

 

Anyway.

The other sort of relationship he dreamed of had nothing to do with music or fans. Or well, it could be linked to music somehow - he'd never object to that - but not to fame. He wanted to fall in love, just as much as he wanted someone to fall in love with him... Him, Justin, the person behind all the walls that his fame had built. Loved for reasons that weren't linked to his public image.

He wanted to experience every aspect of love, without a public image of any kind.

_But that wasn't part of the deal either, I guess._

 

He frowned. Maybe the sun made him frown. No really, he was just blinded by the light, because he was still looking at the seagulls, flying around in front of a babyblue sky. What a cliché, all of this. What were seagulls even doing in Paris? The so called city of love was about 200km away from the sea. Did they love the Seine so much?

Did they fish, dive and rest in the Seine?

Was there a girl sitting on stairs at the banks of the Seine, maybe after buying a book from the Bouquinistes, somewhere between Pont de Sully and Pont d'Iéna?

Was she taking photos? Of swimming seagulls, maybe, enjoying the sun for the light and colours, the contrasts it allowed to capture? Was she a tourist, was she parisian? A redhead, maybe, curvy or slim, wearing Dr Martens or sandals?

 

He wanted to know. He wanted to know so bad; that was the whole issue. If he could, he'd go down there, alone or with his guitar. He'd watch out for such a girl and approach her slowly, start up a conversation, relaxed, unstressed, raising her curiosity, maybe some skepticism he'd need to outplay with humour and smiles. The people passing by would smile at them knowingly, seeing a young man (with or without a guitar, he wasn't sure) fascinated by a beautiful person (whatever shape and clothes, she'd be beautiful, he knew it).

 

He also knew she was down there, that girl he wanted to approach. She was there, and he couldn't go find her, couldn't even leave this hotel. It would imply cameras, screams, shouts and bodyguards, and chase the girl away like a seagull hit by a stone.

It was a dream, nothing but a dream. Truly charming, but imaginary.

 

Justin closed the curtains for good. He took out his drum sticks to start playing rhythms on the floor, the bed, the walls. Anything.

He could certainly hit all of this so hard that he'd play it all away, open his eyes and find himself on the Pont de Sully, looking down at a beautiful girl sitting in the sun.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
